


Bad Romance: The Duke of Azureberry and The Earl of Middlewestmoreland

by Evil_Knitter (Nichneven13)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby is a woman with giant tracts of land, Fairy Tale Elements, First Date, First Kiss, Fluff and Crack, Genderbending, Loki is here but not THAT Loki, M/M, Sam is a girl on accident but it's not creepy, Sam is awesome, Silly, Time Travel, demons meddling, everyone is a man in the end, romantic, scandal is afoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Evil_Knitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Sam and Cas wake up titled, rich and in the midst of a scandal, courtesy of a little prank of the supernatural variety. Sam is betrothed and not happy about it… neither are Cas and Dean. The trio must play their parts to find their way out of this, another effed up Winchesterian adventure. Not AU! </p>
<p>Original prompt: Dean and Cas are trapped in a cheesy romance novel by a demon and have to follow the plotline to escape once the story ends. For the "Secret Angels Gift Exchange 2010."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Romance: The Duke of Azureberry and The Earl of Middlewestmoreland

The sound of chirping birds and the feel of a cross-breeze over his bare skin woke Dean. He stretched grandly and yawned, letting his joints crack and settle in for the long day. The mattress at his back was fluffy and warm, a rare treat in the Winchester Tour of America’s Worst Motels. He smiled, a little self-satisfied smirk, because Sam hadn’t chosen this bed. It had looked droopier, but damn if that didn’t make it better. 

“Will you be sleeping the day away, my lord?” a crisp English accented voice broke Dean’s reverie. 

“Son of a  _bitch_ ,” Dean yelped, reaching for the gun beneath his pillow and coming up empty-handed. He jumped to his feet, both hands curled and ready to defend himself the old fashioned way. “Who are you?” 

“It is I, Pinkerton,” the man said, taking a series of steps backward. He held a robe of suspicious material in front of him. “I have been your manservant for well on fifteen years, my lord.” 

“You… what?” Dean crouched lower and scanned the room. It was not the dingy motel room he’d gone to sleep in. The walls were papered in deep burgundy damask with velvet drapes hanging sumptuously around the large French windows. He took in the dark wood armoire and valet stand on the far side of the room before returning his attention to Pinkerton. “Where am I?” 

“Y-your country estate, my lord,” the trembling man stuttered. “L-Lawrencia.” 

“ _My_  country estate?” Dean blinked and came out of his crouch. “What the  _hell_?” 

A blood-curdling shriek that sounded vaguely familiar pushed Dean back into his crouch. He whirled toward the door, laying in wait as the shrieking got louder and closer. He categorized the creatures that could make such a noise: banshees… pissed off teenage spirits… Sam. 

“Dean!” Sam flung the door open and ran full tilt toward his brother. Or, at least, Dean thought it was Sam. It was hard to tell, as his brother had sprouted breasts, waist-length hair and was dressed in what could only be described a chemise. With  _lace_. “Dean, I’m a  _girl_!” 

“Madam!” Pinkerton flung his arm over his eyes and turned to face the wall. “Where is your robe?” 

“Sam?” Dean blinked at the much shorter, and yet eerily identical version of Sam. He blinked again when Sam came to a halt directly in front of him. He wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell of lavender that wafted off her skin. Obnoxious smell and breasts aside, Sam didn’t look like a girl. He just looked like a shrunken and pubescent Sam. “Okay, please tell me I’m dreaming? Punch me, maybe I’ll wake up.” 

“Madam,” Pinkerton said in a much aggrieved voice, “where is Mistress Singer?” 

Dean and Sam raised their eyebrows and turned to the distressed manservant. “Mistress Singer?” they said in unison. 

“There you are!” A gruff, clearly feminine voice snapped into the room, followed immediately by a tall woman with a robust bosom and a severe bonnet covering her hair. “What are you thinking, Lady Samantha, traipsing around in such a state? And coming to your brother’s bedchamber? Scandalous!” 

The Winchester brothers—siblings—stared in abject horror at the woman before them. The broad nose, the hooded eyes, the wrinkles… it was Bobby Singer with boobs. 

“Bobby?” Sam breathed. 

“I beg your pardon,” the older woman’s hand fluttered at her throat. The lace at the cuffed edge of her sleeve danced with the movement. “No one but family calls me Bobbie. You will address me as Mistress Singer, or, if you must, Mistress Roberta.” 

“Jesus H. Christ,” Dean muttered. 

“What has gotten into the two of you?” Mistress Singer gasped, scandalized by Dean’s oath. She hurried to make the sign of the cross over her chest. “Your parents, God rest their souls, would be outraged by your behavior. One child running about in her underthings, and one taking the Lord’s name in vain.” 

“We need to find Cas,” Dean said, to the room at large. 

“Azureberry is arriving shortly,” Mistress Singer said, looking down her nose at Dean. 

“Cas is Azureberry?” Sam asked, just to be sure. 

“You silly girl,” the stern woman version of Bobby rushed forward and grabbed Sam’s arm. The seriousness of the situation was the only thing that saved Dean from guffawing. “You know full well who Azureberry is.” 

Sam shot his older brother a distressed look over his shoulder, but allowed Mistress Singer to drag him from the room. “Find Cas,” he said, more than a little disturbed by the tinkling sound of his own voice. “And then, for the love of God, find  _me_.” 

** 

“The Duke of Azureberry,” a dour-faced servant intoned, bowing as Cas and a strange woman entered the lush drawing room. “And the dowager Duchess of Azureberry.” 

Dean stood, dazed and confused, beside a long bar well stocked with sherry, brandy and wine. He held a crystal decanter in one hand, a glass in the other, fully intending to drink some sense into the situation. 

“Dean,” Cas said in a rush of relief. He stopped just inside Dean’s circle of personal space and stared at him like he was an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. “We are not in Nebraska anymore.” 

“Kansas,” Dean said automatically as he corrected the quote. He set the decanter aside, relieved beyond reason to have Cas in eyeshot. “We’re not in  _Kansas_ anymore. Who’s your friend?” 

“Why, I’m the dowager Duchess of Azureberry,” the old woman approached with her gloved hand held aloft. Dean stared at her, refusing to take the proffered invitation to kiss out a greeting. “I am here to see my son settled into a well-matched marriage.” 

Cas made an indignant sound and stalked away from his alleged mother. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean said, tallying up the female residents of the estate in his head. He made a horrified face once he’d done the math. “You’re telling me that Cas—the Duke of Azureberry—is here to marry…  _Sam_?” 

“Perhaps,” the dowager Duchess said with a coy smile and a flash of red eyes. “But let’s not spoil the ending.” 

“Demon,” Dean hissed, reaching for the gun he usually kept his waistband, only to find it missing. He looked down in despair at the skintight pantaloons. He knew then that the colorful waistcoat did not hold his flask of holy water, the same way he knew there was no knife in his knee-high boots, which had been polished to a blinding sheen. 

“The name’s Loki,” the old woman said, dipping into a curtsy. 

“Not a demon,” Cas pointed out helpfully. He tugged at the rigid collar that sat high against his neck. “Loki is a god.” 

“Wait, you’re Loki?” Dean asked, coming out of his instinctual crouch. “The god Gabriel was pretending to be? I mean, when he wasn’t pretending to be a trickster?”

“The very same,” Loki grinned and fiddled with her—his?—reticule. “Gabriel is a great friend and I’ve always admired his work. The time he put you in the television? Oh man, that was hilarious.” 

“So what’s this?” Dean gestured to his ridiculous outfit and the ostentatious room. “Is this your little homage to Gabriel?” 

“Exactly,” Loki said, pleased that Dean had cottoned onto the idea with very little prompting. He’d always heard that the older Winchester was as smart as the bratty one, but he’d also always doubted it. It was not generally possible to be both smart and hot as the fires of Hell. 

“How do we get out of here?” Cas asked with a hint of resignation and then irritation. “And how did you make me human? Where is my grace?” 

“Well, as to that,” Loki tapped her nose and winked. “Gabriel gave me a bit of insight on how to contain your grace for the duration of this little experiment. Worry not, I will return it to you as soon as the story is complete.” 

“You’re human?” Dean asked, his voice loud and angry. He turned on Loki with bullets of pure rage shooting from his eyes. It was one thing to screw with him and Sam, but Cas was off limits. “First you make Sam a girl, then you put me in these  _ridiculous_  pants, and now you make Cas human? Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing you.” 

“Kill the mother of your sister’s betrothed?” Loki taunted. “I somehow don’t think that’s how you want this story to go. The gallows are not a fun place.” 

“What are the rules?” Cas asked again, smoothly maneuvering between Dean and Loki. 

“There are no rules,” Loki said with an innocent smile. “There is a  _plot_.” 

“A plot?” the angel and human asked as one. 

“Yes,” Loki said, squaring her lace covered shoulders. “You see, Lady Samantha has been promised to the Duke of Azureberry since her birth, but she is a headstrong whelp and wants to marry for love. Azureberry is determined to marry Lady Samantha because it was his father’s dying wish. Meantime, we also have the Earl of Middlewestmoreland, an unabashed rake, breaking hearts from here to London, and losing the family’s wealth to boot.” 

“Who’s the Earl of freakin’ Middlewestmoreland?” Dean asked, knowing he was going to regret the answer. And then, with resigned trepidation, “Please tell me it’s not me.” 

“Of course it’s you,” Loki laughed. “Who else would it be?” 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean dragged a hand over his face. The Apocalypse was a thing of the past and  _still_  he was getting dragged into bizarre situations. Where was the vacation he so desperately needed? 

“Go on, Loki,” Cas suggested, ignoring the pointedly disgruntled look Dean leveled at him.   
“Middlewestmoreland needs the marriage to replenish the family coffers, else he’ll have to start selling off heirlooms and get a job.” 

“Perish the thought,” Dean said. 

“Exactly so,” Loki said, red eyes dancing merrily. 

“Okay,” Dean clapped his hands together and glanced at Cas. “Let’s go – we gotta get you to the church on time. I’ll even be the best man. Or the ring-bearer. Whatever.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Cas said, shocked and offended. “Dean, there has to be another way. I don’t  _want_  to marry Sam.” 

“It’s just for this stupid game,” Dean said, working very hard to keep the fuse on his temper long. It wouldn’t do to lose his cool this early in the game. He’d save his epic, world trembling tantrum for after they were safely back on the Mothership. “You won’t really be married to him.” 

“Au contraire,” Loki said with a series of  _tsks_. “Castiel is an angel. Once the sacred vows are said… well, I’m sure you can imagine. The divorce rate amongst angels is pretty low.” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“I’ll leave you two to sort it out,” Loki said, tugging her gloves daintily over her fingers. “The game begins now. I’ll check in on the progress periodically.” With that, the god vanished, leaving behind one pissed off hunter and his awkward angel. 

Dean refused to look away from Cas, who was studiously dusting his fingers along the liquor cabinet. The game—the plot—was easily resolved with a quickie Vegas-style wedding, but the virginal angel was refusing to play ball. 

“You are angry,” Cas said with a sigh. “Please try to understand.” 

“Oh, no, I get it.” Dean stalked toward the smaller man, managing to look impressive and menacing, despite his tight pants and lace collar. “You’re letting your ridiculous heavenly ideas get in the way again.” 

“I’ve held this belief since I was created. This is not a whim designed to irritate or complicate matters.” 

They glared at each other, neither refusing to back down, as if the stony silence could somehow find an accord between the two men. Granted, the Dean and Castiel Staring Smack Down had worked in times past, but as the moments ticked by, no progress was made. 

“Dean!” 

Sam’s voice cracked like he was still stumbling through puberty, drawing Dean’s and Castiel’s eyes away from one another. He crossed the room dressed in a frilly ice-blue dress with a square neckline and flounced skirts. A darling satin blue ribbon encircled his waist and created a fat bow that sat low on his back. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Cas whispered in shock. His eyes widened and made several slow circuits from Sam’s slippered feet to his curled and upswept hair and down again. Sam fidgeted and blushed under the scrutiny. “Sam, what has Loki done to you?” 

“Loki?” Sam croaked. “Loki did this to me? Why?” 

“You’ve got to marry Cas,” Dean said, focusing his eyes on the wall behind his little brother. He could not have a serious conversation with him while Sam’s hair was caught up in so much damn ribbon. “You do that and we get to go home.” 

“Let’s find a church,” Sam said immediately, with great urgency. 

“Lady Prudence over here says no.” 

“Dean,” Cas groaned, and tried to duck his head, but his neck’s movement was impeded by his high collar. “If I could, in good conscience, marry your brother, you know I would.” 

In normal circumstances—and what the hell is normal anyway?—Dean and Sam both would have fallen over themselves laughing at such an inane sentence. But these circumstances? Yeah, not normal.   
Dean quickly gave Sam the details of their predicament, not sparing any insult or defamation of character when it came to the angel’s part in it. At the end, Sam sank down on the fainting couch and dropped his head into his hands. 

“Lady Samantha,” Mistress Singer’s long-suffering voice snapped into the room like a bull whip. “Sit  _up_. And close your legs!” 

“Marry me, Cas,” Sam begged, sitting straighter and trying to situate his long legs into a comfortably feminine position. “Please,  _please_  marry me.” 

Mistress Singer swayed on her feet, beyond scandalized at her young charge’s outrageous words. Young ladies did not prostrate themselves at the feet of their betrothed. 

“Sam,” Cas said, and wiped his eyes, suddenly very tired, which was new for him. A curious throbbing sensation pricked up behind his eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.” 

Mistress Singer collapsed next to Sam in a dead faint. Sam twitched his skirts and slid down the couch, away from the heap of his chaperone. He did feel slightly guilty for vexing the older woman, but honestly, the conversation was bound to go better without her constant shrewing. 

“It’s a game,” Sam said, trying to get to his feet but finding himself tangled in his petticoats and crossed ankles. “Sonofabitch! Cas, you’ve got to help me, man. We’ve got to get out of here.” 

“We will find another way,” Cas said, pressing his fingers tightly against his eye sockets. “I think I have a headache. I need to lie down.” 

On cue, the butler (whose name happened to be Pennysworth) returned, back straight and nose in the air. “Your grace, your mother has left,” he said with great importance. “I have had your trunks transported to your room. If you come this way, I will lead the way.” 

“My room?” Cas dropped his hands from his face and sighed. “I am to stay here?” 

“Yes, your grace,” Pennysworth said, slightly unnerved by the question and steely blue glare fixed on him. “For the wedding.” 

“Whose wedding?” Cas asked. His voice dropped lower and rumbled through the thick air in the parlor and slapped into the poor butler’s face. 

“Y-yours, your grace.” 

“Son.of.a.bastarding.bitch,” Cas bit out, rounding on Dean with a thunderous expression. “Did you know about this? If you knew about this, I swear I will smite the crap out of you myself.” 

“No, I didn’t know,” Dean snapped back, taking a step closer to his friend (although if you had asked Dean at that moment, he would have punched you for calling Cas his friend). “But since it’s already planned, you are going to do it. Marry Sam.” 

“No.” 

“I’m going to kick your ass.” 

Cas’s face screwed up in a foreign expression, although Dean had very little trouble reading the disbelief and condescension there. 

“You’re human now, bitch,” Dean reminded him as he pounced across the thin divide between them.   
Sam registered the moment Cas understood he was in danger. His disbelief fluttered away and was replaced by fear. The slam of bodies was loud in the room. Pennysworth gave a shocked squeak unbefitting his station and quickly backed out of the room. Sam grabbed his skirt in his fists and ran to intervene. 

“Dean,” Sam hollered, his voice dissatisfying and high pitched. “Stop! You’re going to hurt him!” 

“That’s the plan,” Dean grunted as he wrestled Cas to the floor and straddled him. He pulled back, his fist frighteningly high. Beneath him, the angel squirmed and shielded his face. “Hold still, you pompous assnozzle.” 

“Stop it,” Sam latched onto his brother’s arm and tried to jerk him away. Sadly, his strength was that of a teenage girl and all he managed to do was hitch a ride on the downward trajectory of Dean’s punch. “Aaah!” 

Mistress Singer returned to consciousness and quickly righted herself, momentarily offended that no one had fetched the smelling salts to set her to rights. All thoughts of indignation fled when her eyes landed on the rolling mountain of clothing and skin on the floor. She blinked, trying to work out what exactly she was seeing. 

“Samantha Ingrid Middlewestmoreland,” she bellowed, jumping to her feet and stomping across the room. “What the bloody, buggering hell are you doing?” 

The snapping and swinging trio froze. Dean, still straddling the not-so-angelic angel, held Cas’s neck with one hand and his brother’s hair with the other. The fingers of one of Cas’s hands wrapped Dean’s wrist and the others were clawed and firmly clenched around Dean’s jaw. Sam’s fist hovered over Dean’s kidney, his dress mussed and hitched around his waist, displaying his cotton petticoats. They blinked at each other as they huffed in exertion. 

“In all my years,” Mistress Singer continued, her dander fully up and on display. She shifted her stately bosom and conveniently forgot her foul language. “I have never seen such a display. You are lucky no one has arrived for the wedding party. The scandal this little episode would create! I will never be allowed in respectable establishments again! My reputation will be ruined.” 

Sam yelped when his chaperone clamped her fingers around his arm and pulled him away from the fray. Dean and Cas remained in place, but Sam could detect a touch of humor dancing behind his brother’s eyes. 

“You, young lady,” the formidable woman barked as she dragged Sam out of the room. “Upstairs. I will send your maid up to assist with your bath. You are not to come out of your room until I say.” 

Sam considered rejecting the idea of needing a bath or a maid, but thought better of it and scurried away, his satin slippers hissing across the carpeted stairs as he went. 

“As for the two of you,” Mistress Singer wheeled, a pre-emptive index finger held aloft and jabbing. Her cheeks were spotted red as if she’d given into the temptation of a fourth glass of sherry before bed. “Acting as if you are still in short pants, frolicking in the garden with your nurse! This childish behavior must cease at  _once_. If you do not care a whit for Lady Samantha, at least care for your own reputations, tattered as they are!” 

Dean shared a confused glance with Cas. 

“Azureberry,” Mistress Singer did not pause in her verbal vomit. She had held her tongue long enough. “You may have been able to force society to accept you back after your last indiscretion, but they will not be so easily bought this time! And you, Middlewestmoreland, your part will only be forgiven if Lady Samantha is married to Azureberry. You  _know_  this.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, releasing his hold on Cas’s neck without comment or apology. “What did I do to piss off society?” 

“It’s what you both did,” the woman said, her face and neck flushing angrily. “To be found in such a way!  _Together_! Scandalous!” 

“Together?” Cas tilted his head where it still rested against the plush carpeting. 

“Oh hell no,” Dean scrambled to get off Cas’s lap, noticing for the first time how thin the fabric was stretched over his thighs. He turned his back on his sprawled fisticuffs companion and pinned Mistress Singer with his eyes. “You are going to tell me everything, or so help me god, I will toss your flouncy ass out on the street.”

“Hmph,” the lady sniffed, managing to look disgruntled even as her blush bled from mauve to crimson. “It is not a tale for a woman to tell.” 

“Oh you’re going to tell us, lady,” Dean growled, the lace of his cuffs quivered where they hung tattered from the fight. “Right the frick now.” 

“There was always talk of Azureberry and you,” Mistress Singer began, but then stopped, her eyes trailing to the bar behind Dean. “Perhaps a spot of sherry?” 

“Cas,” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed to the bar. “Pour Mistress Singer a large glass of sherry.” 

Cas rose from the ground in a single, graceful movement and hurried to obey. He wanted to hear the story as much as Dean did, because after all, it was  _his_ wedding day looming heavy in the horizon. 

“You two were always close when you were boys,” Mistress Singer said after a healthy swig of her medicinal courage. “Always scampering away to do god knows what in the woods. You’d be gone for hours, then come back flushed and laughing as pretty as you please. There was never a day that did not see the Azureberry and Middlewestmoreland heirs together.” 

“We were friends as children,” Cas summarized for Dean, which earned him a roll of eyes. 

“But that’s not what,” Dean gagged and swallowed over his next words, “ruined our reputations.” 

“Hardly,” Mistress Singer snorted a very unladylike snort and tried another taste of sherry. The tip of her nose shone a high pink. “What did that was being caught  _in flagrante delicto_  in the library during the Earl of Crowley’s musicale.” 

“ _In flagrante delicto?_ ” Dean asked, a sinking sensation in his stomach. 

“That’s Latin for ‘while the crime is blazing’,” Case supplied and for once, Dean was glad for it. “It is used colloquially to refer to sexual activity.” 

Mistress Singer  _eeped_  and gulped her sherry, telling Dean that Cas had gotten it right in one. 

“We?” Dean licked his lower lip and turned to look at Cas instead of the drunken informant who was stumbling back to the fainting couch. “Cas,  _we_  engaged in sexual activity?” 

“So it seems,” Cas hummed. The corners of his mouth turned up and he appeared very amused. His eyes, one might say, danced merrily. 

“You have  _got_  to be kidding me!” Sam shouted from the top of the stairs. He lifted his hem and descended the extravagant staircase as quickly as his encumbered legs would allow. “I’m supposed to marry your big gay lover?” 

“Samartha!” Mistress Singer hiccupped and tried again. “Sammytha.” 

“No way, dude,” Sam ignored his hawkeyed chaperone and stomped over to Dean where he stabbed him in the chest with one of his newly feminized fingers. “I refuse to be Cas’s beard.” 

Cas’s fingers ran over his chin as he imagined Sam taking up residence on his face. He shuddered and decided he’d much rather Dean was his beard, if he had a choice. 

“Pardon me, my lords,” Pennysworth was back, his serious face drawn taut and his nose not nearly as high in the air. “The first carriage has arrived.” 

“No!” Mistress Singer shoved her now-empty glass at the servant and grabbed Sam’s arm. “We must make you presentable. Come!” 

Left alone together, Cas and Dean cleared their throats and toed at the carpet, demonstrating that even in their awkwardness, they were together. 

“Yes, well,” Pennysworth cleared his own throat and clicked his heels together, drawing attention to himself. “Perhaps you both would enjoy some time with your manservant? The ball will begin in three hours.” 

“Right, of course, the ball,” Dean looked down at his shirt, creased and wrinkled. His legs jerked into action, leaving his brain to scramble for purchase in this strange new world. “Come on, Cas.” 

Cas hurried to follow, the fight forgotten and the pair once again united in their stand against their fucked up life. 

** 

The country estate of the infamous Earl of Middlewestmoreland was filled to the brim with people of importance—or so Dean assumed. They huddled together in groups of three or more, whispering behind gloved hands and fluttering fans. Their eyes never failed to find Dean in the room and then bungee away as if lingering too long would drag them into the scandalous air that surrounded the cad. 

Dean ran a finger around the ridiculously starched collar and tried to steady himself. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, close to Pennysworth, waiting for Sam and Cas to make their appearance. Loki had appeared again, gleefully reminding the trio that Samantha and Azureberry were to be married in two short days, and as such, must act as a young couple in love. Dean had gotten his hands all the way around Loki’s neck, before Cas had hauled him away.  _I do not love Sam_ , Cas had said, his breath skipping across Dean’s ear.  _But I will pretend until we can figure this out_. 

Dean had nodded tersely, thrown by the sudden eruption of nervous flutters in his belly at Cas's awkwardly sincere pledge. There was something like a promise in the gentle whisper, something that felt a little like potential, a little like a spark of electric about to ignite and blaze to life, lighting up all the dark corners and lurking shadows Dean kept locked up tight inside. 

He swallowed hard, remembering the all-too-brief moment, then told himself to shake off such thoughts, and focused instead on how goddamn itchy the lace dangling out of his shirt cuffs was. He was so caught up in fiddling with the stiff fabric that he barely noticed Cas coming around the corner, moving to join him at the foot of the stairs. He was alone; Sam had been shuffled off somewhere just after dinner, preparing for what Mistress Roberta called his "big entrance." Dean felt his eyes go wide when Cas stepped into his space, standing close, close enough to touch, close enough to -- 

"Dean," Cas said, gripping his arm and looking up at him with concern. Dean didn't -- couldn't -- know the expression on his face at that precise moment, but whatever it was made Cas's liquid blue eyes go the color of midnight, and brought those deep creases across his forehead. Dean had never in his life wanted anything more than to reach up and smooth those lines away, had never wanted anything more than to see Cas's face free of all the worry, all the tension of the last few years. 

His arm moved then, seemingly of its own accord, lifting his hand to Cas's face. Dean ignored the jolt of shock that fired through the angel's eyes like a bolt of blue lightning, instead concentrating on running the pads of his fingers over Cas's forehead, light and fluttering like the peacock feathers arranged in a vase next to the pianoforte in the corner. 

Cas didn't move, barely breathed, and Dean watched as his eyelids flickered shut and a soft sigh escaped his lips. It was too much for Dean to handle. Too much, and not nearly enough. Glancing around to make sure no prying eyes were seeking them out, Dean inched closer, pushing his fingers up into Cas's hair, running them through the silky locks, infinitely softer than Dean would ever have imagined. Cas gasped, eyes opening wide in shock then falling closed again, slow and languid as Dean continued exploring each hair, each inch of scalp, each curve and indentation with his fingers. 

There was something about Cas, Dean thought, though he'd never quite been able to put his finger on it, something that drew Dean in like a helpless child. Something like gravity, like Cas was the only thing keeping Dean earthbound sometimes, though really Dean thought it was probably the other way around. 

That same gravity was pulling him in now, dragging him closer and closer, hand buried in Cas's hair and eyes fixed firmly on Cas's gently parted lips. There was so little distance between them, so small a gap that closing it would be the work of a mere second, perhaps less. 

And Dean wanted to close it. He wanted to, and he knew it then with a fierce certainty that jumped in his chest and tried to crawl out his throat, but he swallowed it down, afraid of what the words might sound like. Around them, the noise and laughter of the crowd gentled to a low buzz, and there was only them, only this. Dean leaned in, eyes sliding shut, and -- 

"May I present, the Lady Samantha of Middlewestmoreland!" 

The booming voice of the valet snapped Dean's attention, drawing him back into the moment and away from Cas as quickly as he dared move. Cas watched him back away, something like disappointment in his eyes, and Dean couldn't help feeling it a little himself. 

Dean, desperate for something to do with his hands, feigned a coughing fit, and then became suddenly very interested in the invisible wrinkles he found in his jacket. He devoted a full minute to tugging them straight, while Cas looked on, half amused and half put out. Above them, Sam was fidgeting on the stair landing while the crowd clapped politely, ooohing and ahhing over the sumptuous lines of his --  _her_  -- gown. 

It was, of course, the same damn gown Sam'd worn to dinner, the same gown they'd ooh'd and ahhh'd over then, too, and Dean had a moment of burning bitter hatred for the inanity of high society. 

But still, he couldn't help but grin a little when he caught sight of Sam, his earlier awkwardness forgotten, or at least pushed to the back of his mind for a brief while. Sam most decidedly did not look amused, nostrils flaring and lips clamped together tight, giving the crowd a tight smile when Dean knew the whole time all he really wanted was to cut their throats and bleed them dry. 

The thought made him grin harder. 

The crowd watched expectantly as Sam stood there, shifting from foot to foot, face flushed with heat and the weight of everyone's gaze on him, and he swore to himself that he wouldn't just kill Loki, he'd torture him first. Scratch that. He'd sic Dean on him,  _then_  he'd kill him. 

The crowd's quiet murmurs grew slowly louder, and Dean looked over his shoulder to see many a confused gaze and raised eyebrow among them. He glanced back at Cas, then up the stairs to Sam, and then to the impatient countenance of the valet. Finally, Mistress Roberta appeared at Cas's elbow, as she reached up to pinch him sharply on the underside of his arm. 

Cas let out a noise halfway between a hiss and a shriek, and the crowd pressed closer, curious to see what was going on. 

"She is a  _lady_ ," Mistress Singer said in Cas's ear, low and deadly serious. "Go up there and escort her down.  _Now_." 

Cas nodded, scurrying up the stairs before Roberta could get off another pinch. He met Sam at the landing, reaching forward awkwardly, not sure what to do, and the two shuffled around, trying to figure out who should take whose arm. Finally, Sam slid his arm through Cas's, and the crowd gave an approving round of applause. The band struck up at just that moment, and there was more clapping as the onlookers began to disperse, coyly searching for dance partners. 

"What now?" Cas asked, leaning toward Sam and speaking out the side of his mouth. Sam shook his head, the same constipated expression on his face. 

"I have no idea." 

"Should we dance?" 

That won Cas a look. "You want to dance? With  _me_?" 

"Of course I don't," the angel growled, and Sam thought there was more of Dean in him than he probably realized. 

"But you just said --" 

"Let's just get this charade over with as quickly as possible, alright?" 

Sam nodded, watching Cas closely. He seemed... off, somehow. Flustered. The normally cool and collected angel was ruffled, and Sam wanted to know why. He tugged on Cas's arm and gave a meaningful glance down at the stairs. Cas got the idea and began to guide them down into the hall. They reached the bottom of the stairs, where Dean was waiting with an unreadable look on his face. Cas tried to meet his eyes, but Dean glanced away, then walked stiffly to the refreshment table while Cas led Sam onto the floor. 

“This is odd,” Cas commented, tugging Sam into the crowd and twirling him around. At Sam’s questioning look, he smiled. “You are shorter than I am.” 

Sam laughed at that, because yeah, he’d noticed that he had to crane his neck to look up at Cas as they danced. He hadn’t had to do that since he hit that monster growth spurt at fifteen. It was disorienting, but he liked it in the same way he liked the novelty of blue cotton candy instead of pink. His laughter was high and –dare he say it—tinkling. The dancing couples passing by shot them approving looks that made Sam flush. 

“You’re blushing,” Cas said, bringing their joined hands up to lightly brush against the pink skin of Sam’s cheek. It was an intimate gesture that would have made Mistress Singer gasp, had she seen it. “I’ve never seen you do that before.” 

Sam’s blush deepened and he ducked his head. He was absolutely not attracted to Cas, but his newly acquired estrogen seemed to enjoy the flattery well enough. The ballroom was crowded with people looking for a reason to condemn Dean to societal exile, and for some reason, Sam  _cared_. He understood, logically, that the world they found themselves in was fictional and that it did not matter in the least if Society ostracized his brother or not, but yeah, he cared. 

Cas’s hand tightened around Sam’s waist as they rounded the corner of the dance floor, his lead sure and strong. Truth be told, he had enjoyed dancing as an angel—even more so as a human. He felt like he was flying and he couldn’t control the laugh that bubbled up. It ripped out of him, sounding rusty and discordant. 

That laugh, as Cas and Sam danced past, was what made Dean abandon all sense of decorum and rationality. He had never heard the angel laugh out loud before –  _never_  – but there it was, loud and endearing, all because of Sam. The twist in his gut was low and unfamiliar. It pissed him off and he rebelled against it. 

But then, before his brain got the memo to chill the hell out, he found himself on the dance floor, his hand yanking Sam away from Cas. The music kept up its soft waltzing tune, but the closest dancers stuttered to a stop, openly watching the scene before them. 

“That’s enough,” Dean growled as he pushed Sam behind him and glared at Cas and his stupid confused face. “ _Enough_. You don’t get to do this.” 

“Dean,” Cas said in a pointed voice, shifting his eyes to draw Dean’s attention to their audience. He had no idea what Dean was angry about, but he knew that the middle of a crowded, very interested dance floor was not the best place to find out. “Perhaps we should seek privacy.” 

“You aren’t marrying Sam,” Dean said, reaching behind him to shove Sam farther away. Behind him, Sam made whispered pleas for his brother to shut up. “You just  _can’t_.” 

A delighted giggle pierced the air, but was quickly muffled behind a hand. Scandal was afoot! 

“Dean,” Cas said again and took a step forward, putting him within arm’s reach of the angry man. Tension snapped and snarled between them, almost tangible with its force. “We will talk about this later. Not here.” 

“Come on, man,” Sam whispered, firmly positioning himself between the angel and his brother. The silk of his emerald green skirts slid over the ankles of both men. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is part of the  _plot_. I have to dance with Cas.” 

Cas looked down at the silk swirling against his hose-encased legs. The fabric was softer than any other he had felt and it tickled. The corners of his mouth twitched up as he raised his head to look back at the Winchester brothers. He wondered if Dean knew how good silk felt. He didn’t get a chance to ask because the man in question had turned on his well-shod heel and stalked up the stairs and quickly out of the ballroom. 

Sam turned along with the rest of the crowd to watch Dean go. He pinched his features together as he replayed the events leading up to his brother’s explosion. He’d had a good laugh at Sam’s cleavage quivering behind the square-necked evening gown. He’d eaten damn near a whole pig at dinner. He’d paced impatiently at the bottom of the stairs until Sam and Cas had made their appearance. His face had been impassive, if not a touch amused… until the dance. Sam idly pulled at the fat curl his maid had left dangling in front of his right ear. Cas had done splendidly, holding Sam close enough to lead him around the floor, but not so close as to start tongues wagging. It had been fun, actually, and they had laughed together. 

Oh. Sam’s features rubber banded back into shape. Cas had  _laughed_  with Sam.  _Oh_. 

** 

Two flights above the whispering of the throng in the ballroom, Dean stormed into his bedroom, ripping at his uncomfortable shirt. Pinkerton flashed to existence at his elbow, like a goddamn angel, begging his employer to treat the delicate fabrics with care. 

“Look at my face, Pinky,” he said, standing still and glowering down at his valet, “and tell me if this is the right time to lecture me about my wardrobe.” 

“Right you are, my lord,” Pinkerton stuttered and bowed his way out of the room. 

Dean struggled out of his confining clothes, using the full force of his strength to throw them around the room. He grunted in dissatisfaction when there was no crash or destruction of property. The need to break something was immense. He picked up the small silver boot brush on his dresser and lobbed it at ugly framed landscape painting over his bed. The canvas easily gave way, ripping across the valley of yellow sunflowers. 

He turned back and picked up a shoehorn and gave it the same treatment. His boots followed suit, smudging the wallpaper and delivering a  _boom_  that sent a wave of relief crashing down his body. 

The door to his room opened and Dean, still in his fine fit of rage, snatched the cigar cutter from the dresser and hurled it without looking. “Get out!” 

“And you call  _me_  a girl?” Sam snorted and patently ignored his brother’s directive. “I can’t believe you are throwing a freakin’ tempter tantrum because I danced with your man.” 

“Don’t, Sam,” Dean warned and after a lifetime of goading his older brother, Sam listened and fell silent. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Dean pace the room in his skin-tight breeches and nothing else. “First, Cas is  _not_  my man. And B, that’s not the point.” 

“Okay,” Sam said, reaching up to pull out the first of hundreds of pins in his hair. There was no way he was going back down to the ball, plot be damned. “So what’s the point?” 

“The point?” Dean stopped mid-pace and turned glittering and angry eyes on Sam. “There is no point!” 

“Okay,” Sam said again, adding another pin to the steadily growing pile in his lap. “So there’s no point to this little display. Is that what you’re telling me?” 

Dean leveled a glare at his absurdly dressed little brother. Who the hell thought Sam was a  _girl_? He had an Adams apple for the love of God. 

“Dean,” Sam said in his new, soft voice. “It’s okay. I don’t want Cas.” 

“And you think I do?” 

When Sam didn’t answer immediately, Dean’s face flushed. He turned to the crystal decanter that Pinkerton had laid out for him—Pinky was a good man, Dean decided—and poured himself a tall glass. He drained the whiskey in three large gulps and poured another round. 

“He’s your best friend,” Sam said into the silence, as if that explained everything. 

“ _You_  are my best friend,” Dean countered. 

“I don’t count, jerk,” Sam sighed. “The two of you are joined at the damn hip. And I haven’t heard a story from you in years that hasn’t started with ‘Cas says’ or ‘Cas thinks’.” 

“Whatever,” Dean mumbled, rolling his glass in his palms. He was in no mood to be introspective. “We’ve got to get out of here. Cas has got to marry you.” 

“You just disrupted a freakin’  _ball_  to tell Cas  _not_  to marry me,” Sam reminded him. “I can hardly keep up with your mood swings, man.” 

There was a soft knock at the door. Both brothers eyed it warily, neither in the mood to play the roles Loki had forced upon them. 

“It’s me,” Cas’s gravelly voice bled through the door. Dean steadfastly held his position in the middle of the room. “Dean, let me in.” 

“Not now,” Dean said. He shot Sam a quelling look when he huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas sighed and laid his head against the door. There was something about the way Dean’s eyes had flickered when he’d said  _you just can’t_  downstairs. It was jealousy, yes, that much had been apparent, but there was more there. “Please talk to me.” 

Dean made no move. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sam said, unconsciously whispering. He didn’t want to bear witness to whatever weird DeanandCas moment was about to happen. “Open the door and talk to him.” 

“You’re going to make me do this with a door between us,” Cas said and it wasn’t a question. He propped his forearm on the doorframe and chuckled. “You are the most dramatic human I’ve ever seen. Fine, I’ll do this, but you better listen to me.” 

Sam stared at the wrinkles in his dress. He missed jeans and flannel. 

“I would give anything,” Cas said, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. “I would  _do_  anything. For you. I would not— _could_  not—hurt you. This thing with Sam—” 

Sam’s head jerked up and he found Dean’s eyes shooting poison-tipped darts at him. 

“You know there is nothing,” Cas said. “Sam is my friend. I would as soon marry him as I would Bobby.” 

The corners of Dean’s mouth turned up slightly as he pictured Bobby in a wedding dress and blushing beneath a veil. 

“I wish Loki would have chosen you,” Cas said, his voice barely a whisper through the thick door. “It would have been easier that way. I would marry  _you_ , Dean, without question.” 

Dean’s shoulders tensed and the tips of his ears reddened. He looked at Sam, panic flooding his veins and drowning him. 

“If you don’t open that damn door,” Sam hissed, retreating to the far end of the room, trying to blend with the thick curtains. While he was perfectly fine with his brother tapping the ass of an angel, he didn’t need to have a starring role in the hook up. “I swear to God, I’ll murder you.” 

Dean found his legs moving beneath him. His hand, without his permission, flung the door wide. He was distracted from Cas’s slumped and drawn form by the passing of a Big Mack Truck on the highway. It took the length of a full blink for Dean to realize they’d been transported back to the Love and Leave Inn, and more importantly, back to the present. 

He tore his eyes away from the scenery and looked at Cas, who was back in his suit and trench coat. He had never been so glad to see the frumpy uniform. He grinned, but when Cas straightened in the doorway and turned his intense gaze to Dean’s face, the grin morphed into an open-mouthed shape of shock.  _Oh shit_. 

Cas opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to the punch. “My dick is back!” 

** 

It took less than two minutes for Dean to find the keys to the Impala and hightail it to the only bar in town. He ordered Tequila, forsaking his preferred whiskey as it reminded him too much of silk skirts and lace. After his third shot, he asked the bartender to leave the bottle. He had one goal: Get as shitfaced as possible, as quick as possible. 

His brain played Cas’s last words on a loop.  _I would marry_  you,  _Dean_. He took another shot, not even tasting it as it flowed over his tongue. So, okay, maybe that made his chest constrict in ways he didn’t want to admit. He’d almost kissed Cas in a crowded ballroom. Part of him—a large part—was pissed that he hadn’t given in to the impulse. 

“You are so dense,” a man said as he took the stool next to Dean and reached for the bottle of Tequila. “I put you in a freaking romance novel and you still don’t get it.” 

Dean didn’t turn his head to look at Loki. He couldn’t kill him and he had no urge to engage him. 

“Gabriel warned me you would fight it,” Loki chuckled to himself and took a swig directly from the bottle. “Pride is a bitch, Dean.” 

“Yeah? Well, so are you,” Dean said and then winced. It was not one of his better comebacks. “What, exactly, do you want from me?” 

He finally turned his head, but Loki was gone. Son of a bitch. He took another shot and returned to his brooding. Fine, yes, he wanted to kiss Cas. He would do it. Eventually. He just… needed some liquid courage. 

The familiar flutter-flap of wings didn’t make Dean jump. He expected it, really. 

“Hey Cas.” 

“Dean.” 

Dean poured a shot of Tequila in his glass and slid it to the angel, who drank it down in a flash and chased it with a dose of silence. The glass appeared back in front of Dean, the demand for more evident. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” Cas asked as Dean tripped more Tequila in the glass. 

“You’ve been talking to Sam again, haven’t you?” 

Cas’s lips quirked. “Guilty,” he said and drank again. “But are we? Talking about it?” 

“No.” 

“All right then,” Cas drummed his fingers against the bar. “Pour me another.” 

The noise in the bar rose as a large group entered and claimed a high top in the center of the room. The bartender hurried to take their orders, leaving Cas and Dean with the muted television as their only company. They both tilted their heads back, watching a game of soccer.   
Cas sipped at his drink and Dean shelled a peanut. They were close enough that their elbows knocked together frequently. The first touch made them jump, but as the minutes ticked by, they settled into the intimacy. 

“Offside,” Cas said with a nod at the screen. “Brazil was offsides. Indirect free kick to South Africa.” 

“You know about soccer?” Dean asked incredulously. At Cas’s nod, he made an impressed sound. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” 

Cas shrugged and pushed the rest of the Tequila away. Dean followed suit, placing the half-empty bottle back on the bartender’s ledge. He’d pay for the bottle, but he’d lost his appetite for it. 

“What else are you keeping from me?” Dean asked, turning on his stool to face Cas’s profile, his knee brushing along the side of the other man’s thigh. “What are the deep, dark secrets of Mr. Castiel ‘You-Should-Show-Me-Some-Respect’ Angel of the Lord?” 

“I do not have deep, dark secrets,” Cas said with a small smile. “You just haven’t asked. I will tell you anything.” 

“Hmm,” Dean grinned. “Favorite color?” 

“White.” 

“White?” 

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “It reminds me of home.” 

“Favorite TV show?” 

“Um,  _Destination Truth_ ,” Cas said and then chuckled embarrassedly at his admission. “Josh makes me laugh.” 

“I love  _Destination Truth_!” 

“I also like  _Jeopardy_  and  _The Brady Bunch_.” 

Dean laughed, his body shaking from it. His knee bumped into Cas’s thigh again. 

“May I ask a question?” Cas said softly as Dean’s laugh puttered into a chuckle. At Dean’s nod, he asked: “Why do you like  _Doctor Sexy, M.D._?” 

“I don’t,” Dean answered reflexively, but then sighed. He couldn’t let Cas strike out into the terrifying terrain of honesty alone. “I like to watch it to forget about our effed up reality. An hour a week I can pretend the worst thing happening in the world is Dr. Wang flubbing her licensing exam.” 

“As if Dr. Wang would flub that,” Cas teased. 

“Favorite song?” Dean fired. 

“I have not heard many songs,” Cas said, pursing his lips. “But I liked that song about the rain. The one Sam sings in the shower.” 

“Oh,” Dean blinked and nodded as if surprised. “It’s called ‘I Love a Rainy Night’ by Eddie Rabbit. Not one of my favorites, but it’s been Sam’s happy shower time song since he was a kid. He says you can’t be unhappy when you’re singing that one.” 

“I agree,” Cas beamed and then started singing. “ _I love to feel the rain on my face, to taste the rain on my lips in the moonlight shadows puts a song in this heart of mine. Puts a smile on my face every time._ ” 

Dean swallowed a walnut-size lump and licked his lips. He had no idea the angel could sing. And man, could he  _sing_. 

“ _Well I love a rainy night_ ,” they sang together. “ _Oooh-ooh_!” 

“You sing much better than Sam,” Cas said with a smile. “What is your favorite kind of pie?” 

“Cherry,” Dean said instantly, but then shook his head. “Apple. No, lemon,” he grinned at Cas. “Damn, I don’t know. It depends on my mood, but seriously, there is no such thing as bad pie, so all of it is my favorite.” 

“Okay,” Cas nodded and waited for Dean’s next question. It was like playing a rapid-fire version of  _Jeopardy_  only they weren’t phrasing their answers in the form of a question. He couldn’t remember ever having as much fun. “Your turn.” 

“Are your wings really black?” Dean asked, because he’d only gotten a glimpse of them that first night in the barn. They’d been expansive, black and frightening. 

“No,” Cas smiled. “They are ivory. What you saw was my projection. I wanted to, uh, impress you.” 

“I almost crapped my pants,” Dean admitted with a bark of laughter. “Wait, so are they as, uh,  _big_  as they looked?” 

“Oh yes,” Cas’s smile widened into something approaching pride. “My wingspan is quite large.” 

Heat filled Dean’s cheeks with a blush strong enough to make his freckles disappear. He stuttered out an outrageous sound of incredulity and scooted back on his stool, breaking the connection between his knee and Cas’s thigh. 

“Come on,” he said, pitching his voice into his gruffest, most manly register. “Let’s head back to the motel. I’m sure Lady Samantha is—damn.” 

“What?” Cas asked as he slid off his own stool. 

“That joke isn’t even funny anymore,” Dean complained with a beleaguered sigh. “Stupid Loki, ruining twenty solid years of name calling.” 

It was with great laughter that the pair climbed into the Impala. Dean drove the few miles to their motel at a speed most snails would consider slow. He wasn’t ready for the easy conversation—and enlightening Q&A session—to end. He was learning more about Cas in a single night than he had in the past three years. 

He learned that moles were Cas’s favorite animal—because of their hilarious noses. And that he’d once followed a rainbow and found that, yes, there was a pot of gold at the end. He found out that Cas’s favorite smell was leather and gun oil (which made Dean succumb to another humiliating fit of blushing). He learned that Cas’s favorite city in the entire world was Savannah, Georgia, because he liked the accents, the porch fans, and the magnolias. 

The car rolled into a parking space in front of their room door. Dean cut the engine and palmed the keys, listening to the car settle into stillness. He twisted at the waist to look at his date. 

_Whoa_ , he thought, freaking himself out. But then he kept looking at Cas, who was smiling at him beatifically, his elbow propped up on the back of the bench seat, his face resting against his palm. He realized and was able to admit, at least to himself, that yeah, he was on a date. He took another moment to consider his feelings—ignoring the full-blown chick flickness of that damn thought. He was…  _happy_. Or something close to it. He wanted to continue to talk to Cas about his favorite things and memories. He wanted to always have his knee brushing Cas’s leg. He didn’t want Cas to leave, ever-ish. 

Well, son of a bitch. Dean shook his head, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He was pretty impressed with the speed at which his brain was catching up with his subconscious. He wanted Cas. He  _wanted_  Cas, and not in the tear-off-your-clothes-and-wake-up-the-neighbors way, either – well, okay, not in that way _exclusively_  – but more in the take-turns-cooking-dinner-and-argue-over-the-remote-before-we-pass-out-on-the-couch kinda way. Dean was suddenly pretty damn sure he could handle that. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, a propos of nothing. “Yeah, okay.” 

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Cas’s wrist, tugging gently. Cas lifted his head, eyes impossibly wide and velvet blue in the dark interior of the car, and allowed Dean to pull him across the bench seat. He licked his lips in an unconsciously human behavior he’d picked up from Dean, and Dean’s eyes traced the path of the angel’s tongue, heat flaring in his belly. 

“Yeah,” Cas whispered, repeating Dean’s words as he tipped his face up, giving Dean a soft smile, full of promise. “Yeah, okay.” 

They leaned forward and met in the middle, lips barely touching, and Dean couldn’t have said which one of them closed the gap first. It was a first date kind of kiss, curious and tentative, the kind that’s over almost before it starts, but so good it leaves you aching for more. They pulled back as one, staring at each other in wonder. Cas’s blue eyes fell to the other man’s lips, astonished and captivated as Dean’s tongue swept between them. With a soft sound made in parts of sighs and quiet, barely stifled groans, they came together again, kissing the kiss of second dates. Open mouths and touching tongues, a whimper traded back and forth. 

When they pulled back for the second time, the windows of the Impala were foggy and opaque around them. Dean huffed a shaky laugh and pressed his forehead to Cas’s. 

“Finally,” Cas said, his voice higher than normal, a bare hint of a tremble underneath the grit and gravel. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Are we… good?” Cas asked, trying out the question the Winchester brothers frequently used with each other. 

“We’re more than good, Cas,” Dean said, pressing a quick kiss to the angel’s swollen lips, reveling in the knowledge that he could now do so whenever he wanted. “Remind me to send Loki a fruit basket.” 

 

 

The End 

 


End file.
